Crossing To The Wrong Side
by calypsopotter18
Summary: "Tempest, I promise I'll come back for you someday. I promise." Michael whispers, kissing me on the forehead. I am confused. Where is my big brother going? Why is he leaving me? I'm only three. Where am I going? (Michael is Tack for anyone who doesn't know.)
1. Chapter 1

"_Tempest, I promise I'll come back for you someday. I promise." Michael whispers, kissing me on the forehead. I am confused. Where is my big brother going? Why is he leaving me? I'm only three. Then, I am flying. It's nothing like I have dreamed. The hum of electricity buzzes in my little ears. Why am I flying? Where am I going? The landing hurts. Patches of skin are ripped up from my knees and chin. My mouth is salty with blood and tears. I hear a faint whisper of "I'm sorry Tempest. Please forgive" as Michael disappears into the darkness once again. The cries begin shortly after I can no longer see the silhouette of my brother. I ball up on the ground, tears flowing freely, with no sign of stopping anytime soon. This is one of the few noises I've ever made. I know how to speak, but I don't. I know how to laugh, but I don't. I know how to communicate in almost every way possible besides other languages, but I don't. Crying is a sound I will make. It shows my discontent to the world. It shows my pain. It keeps people at bay. A border guard comes over to me. He mutters something into a radio, then picks me up and cradles me like Michael always has. He murmurs that it's going to be okay, but the words flow awkwardly out of his mouth. Effect of the cure; losing compassion and the ability to care. I learned these things in the Wilds. My peaceful and unnoticeable existence gave me the ability to learn things I shouldn't know. Not yet anyway. He carries me to a guard house and asks his companions what he should do with me. I hear the words "Invalid", "Hargrove", "Are you sure", and "I'll go." A different man carries me now, to a black car; a kind I'd been taught to avoid. I begin squirming and whimpering. Words of affection flow fluently from this man's mouth. I glance at the back of his neck. There's a scar. I touch it. It feels like the fake ones I'd grasped while in the Wilds. He's a sympathizer. I stop fighting and allow the man to slide me into his car. I curl up on the back bench seat, wishing Michael was here. The car takes a smooth turn into a long driveway. There are lights here. It must be a rich family. Why am I here? The man retrieves me from the backseat and carries me gingerly up to the front porch. His finger presses a button. I hear a resonant ringing that hurts my ears. I whimper again, holding my ears. He doesn't coddle me this time. This is not the house of a sympathizer. The door opens quickly and quietly. Words are murmured, and I am carried through the entryway into a vast foyer. I've never seen luxury. My mouth opens into a small 'o'. I don't understand. A man and a woman, followed by a young boy descend the staircase in front of me. Conversations begin. Questions are asked. Looks are exchanged. Confusion overtakes my brain. My whimpering restarts without asking me if it's okay. The little boy looks confused. But he can't compare to me. Suddenly, I'm handed over to the woman who holds me with the care of a mother, but the compassion of a cured. The sympathizer leans in and says goodbye. He exits. I cry for him silently. The new man leans in, asking me what my name is. It releases quietly from my small lips, "Tempest." The woman looks at him. He looks at her. They whisper something about "The name of an Invalid." I don't know what they're saying. What's wrong with my name? The man leans into my face, too close this time. I smell a faint hint of aftershave and a blast of spearmint that makes my eyes burn. "We're going to call you Faith. Okay?" What else can I do but agree? I don't speak. I still don't know what's wrong with my old name. I am carried gingerly up to a room. My room now. What that means, I don't know. I've never had more than a blanket and a pillow on the floor of a tent. The comfort of the bed is unfamiliar. I don't like it. Once all of the people leave, my weak arms pull the comforter down to the ground. A pillow falls with it. I remove the case and manage to pull strips out of it. I wrap them around my knees, palms, anywhere that's bleeding. The hardwood floor feels better. I curl up with the blanket. What will my life become? I've crossed, but not the way my family "The Invalids" do. I'm confused. But I drift into a deep sleep. When I wake again, I'm back in the bed. It's not comfortable. What will my new life be like? Surely, I won't understand/_

I wake with a start. I check my surroundings. I'm in the bed I was dreaming about. My bed. I'm in the room I was dreaming about. My room. I'm in the house I was dreaming about. My house. I'm in the city I was dreaming about. My city. I'm on the side I've crossed to. My crossing. I just woke up from a dream. My dream. My recurring dream. My recurring nightmare. My recurring truth.


	2. Chapter 2

My head returned to the pillow, but sleep did not grace me with its overwhelming presence. That dream was my reality. It brought back why I am here. What I am missing. Who left me here all those years ago. But it still didn't tell me why. And I wouldn't know until Michael returned. If he returned. The recurring dream also gave me my reason for my constant silence. I never spoke. I hadn't spoken since that night. Not a single word. My "family" thought I was mute, but they also knew I couldn't be because they'd heard the screams and cries from my early childhood that echoed through the house in the dead of night. I am seventeen now. Still haven't spoken. And I intend not to until I see Michael again.

Sleep will not come. I remove myself from the bed and head for the shower. I check the clock on my way out of the bathroom. Six o'clock in the morning. Not an unusual time for me to be awake. I dress slowly, waiting for more morning sounds to occur before I head downstairs. Once my "father" turns off the shower and Fred turns it back on again, I know it is safe to go down. If I go down too early, they'll know I can't sleep. They'll know I'm having the dream again. And they'll send me for an early cure. I can't be cured early. I can't be cured until I see Michael. But that won't work. Because I'm being evaluated today. So that I can be paired. So that when I'm cured, I have a pair. So that we can be married. So that everything will work perfectly for eternity. Until death do us part.

I will not obey the rules of this society. Reacting like an Invalid is in my blood. My real mother, real father, and real brother are Invalids as far as I know. I need to fight against this unbearable, unavoidable push to be exactly like everyone else. But I can't fight very well since I refuse to use words. Being silent may keep people away, but it doesn't help much in arguments. I reject human interaction, but it concerns everyone. The people who call themselves my friends, Hana and Lena, try to get me to open my mouth, give my vocal cords a use. I reject their suggestions every time with a shake of my head. People always say that the cure will fix it when they think I'm not listening or not there. But I'm always there. And I'm always listening.

I descend the staircase carefully. My "mother" is sitting at the kitchen table, reading a book, one of the few approved by the government. She says good morning and smiles at me. My lips curl up slightly at the corners, forming a small smile. _My name is Tempest_ I think when she refers to me as Faith. A notepad is sitting in front of my spot at the table. I sit and reach for it, wondering what its use will be to me, if there is one. My mother begins explaining how that will be used for my evaluations. Since I am the mayor's "daughter", I can do what I wish in terms of actually speaking at my evaluation. I will write my answers to their ridiculous and pointless questions down on this useless notepad. She stares at me expectantly, as though she expects words to come from my mouth. I flip open the pad to the first page, then pick up the pen, and write _Thank You_ across the blank page. Satisfaction covers her countenance.

Breakfast is placed in front of the both of us. I flash the sign up and the maid smiles warmly. I'm the only one who appreciates the people in this house. We eat quietly, making as little noise as possible on my part. Fred and my father come down the staircase together, discussing politics. I roll my eyes unnoticeably. Happy "Good Morning" greetings are exchanged. "How did you sleep" goes unasked because all cureds sleep the same way; dreamlessly and peacefully. I am the only uncured in the house.

The next hour is uneventful. Then it is time for my evaluation. Fred volunteers to take me down. He doesn't understand my silence, but he at least respects it. Noise begins to filter into my thoughts as we venture further into town. My window must be slightly down in the car. It slides up quietly as my finger holds down the button. I am dropped off outside the building. My sights are set on going unnoticed and getting to the back of the line. But being the "daughter" of the Hargroves, that isn't easy. My arm is grabbed by a regulator who insists that I go in first. I'm passed from station to station, person to person, room to room until I finally reach the waiting room. Lena is sitting in a chair with her head in her hands. I am confused. She was evaluated a while ago wasn't she? Or was she here on the day the Invalids released cows into the labs? That was it. The evaluations from that day were considered tampered with and inaccurate. They were being redone today.

Lena perks up a little when I sit down next to her. She begins talking quietly. She knows I won't respond. That was what our relationship consisted mainly of. Her talking, me listening. It was a peaceful, uneventful friendship. I appreciated it. It was nice being able to listen to someone and never have to respond or, in my case, feel obligated to respond. A woman comes out and calls Lena's name. She says goodbye and follows the woman through the gray double doors.

I rest in the chair, wondering where Michael was, missing him. Being cured was against everything the people in the Wilds stand for. And I am not proud. But everyone in Portland believes I am the Hargrove's child. And I have to act the part. My name is called. I rise, holding my notepad close against my thigh. It's time to do what everyone has to do. But it doesn't matter to me. I'm getting out of here. Out of this building. Out of my house. Out of this city. Out into the Wilds.


End file.
